


Improprieties

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [11]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, casefic, innocent Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 11:24:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5783539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I had just reached the hotel room—the scene of the crime in which we had unexpectedly found ourselves embroiled—when to my great shock, Sherlock had suddenly been ejected with rather energetic force into the hallway.</p>
<p>While unveiling a self-assured and calculating criminal, Sherlock is disturbed by some inexplicable behaviour. Dr Watson’s personal musings that he’s tucked into the hidden compartment of his dispatch box reveal more about his complicated relationship with the consulting detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Improprieties

“What on earth happened?” I demanded. I had just reached the hotel room—the scene of the crime in which we had unexpectedly found ourselves embroiled—when to my great shock, Sherlock had suddenly been ejected with rather energetic force into the hallway. The door behind him slammed shut. He looked at me with his eyes wide, and his hand went up to his cheek.  
  
“I am not entirely sure,” he replied to my earnest enquiry.  
  
“What were you doing in there? Did she strike you?”  
  
He nodded, a baffled expression on his fine features. “I was examining the scene for evidence, of course,” he responded.  
  
I nodded, encouraging him to continue his explanation as I drew him to me. “Let us go down to the restaurant and get some tea,” I proposed. I hooked his arm into mine and gently directed him in the proper direction. “Please go on,” I urged. “You were examining the scene?”  
  
“Yes. I needed to examine where Miss Carmichael said she had secreted the stolen objects and the rest of her room. I was also questioning her. I knew there was more to her story than simply: ‘I had some valuable items hidden in my room and they have been stolen.’”  
  
“That seems quite likely. What did she have to say?” We descended the impressive stairway into the hotel lobby.  
  
“She reiterated what she had told us initially—only she and her brother, who was accompanying her on her trip to London, knew that she had the objects in question in town.”  
  
“It seems highly unlikely that he would execute the robbery, then,” I commented. “A bit too obvious a suspect, yes?”  
  
“Exactly, my dear doctor.”  
  
“Did he know where they were hidden?”  
  
“A child could have determined where they were ‘hidden,’” he scoffed. “She had chosen a positively idiotic hiding place.” He rubbed his cheek, which was marred by a vivid crimson mark.  
  
“Sherlock,” I muttered in disapproval. “Did you say that to her? Is that perhaps why she struck you?”  
  
“No. I was not at all insulting with my comments in her presence.”  
  
“Are you certain?” I challenged. He could be—without meaning to be—actually quite cruel.   
  
“Yes, I _am_ ,” he stated petulantly. “In fact, it was she who used the word ‘idiotic’. She admitted that she had been. I simply agreed.”  
  
I sighed. “Then what do you think you _did_ say that angered her so?” I pressed.  
  
“What makes you think that it was something I said?” he responded a bit sharply. He was getting angry with me, which was rare. He sighed as we entered the restaurant and became lost in his own thoughts. I had to tug on his arm as the maître d’ showed us to a table.  
  
“All right. I apologise. Please continue,” I begged as soon as we were seated.  
  
“We were discussing her case. As I have said, I had eliminated her brother as being directly responsible for the robbery. I asked her if she could think of anyone else who might have known that she had those valuable items in her hotel room.”  
  
“That seems reasonable.”  
  
“I thought so. She could not, however, think of anyone other than her brother who could have known. She does not have a lady’s maid. She packed her own bags. She maintains her statement that she did not mention the objects to anyone at the hotel, and at the time she felt that she had them well hidden.”  
  
“Where _did_ she have them hidden?” I asked, getting distracted from my enquiry regarding his assault by the details of the case.  
  
“She said that she had put them at the bottom of a drawer and put some of her… more personal articles of clothing on top of them.”  
  
“Personal articles?”  
  
“There was a great deal of lace and ribbon.”  
  
“Ah. Oh, yes. Tea and cake, please,” I requested from the waiter who had appeared. He nodded and went off. I believed that I was beginning to understand the situation. “Sherlock, did you—ah—touch these garments?”  
  
“Yes, of course I did. How else was I to look for evidence?”  
  
“True,” I acquiesced. “But did you say or do anything regarding those items that would cause her embarrassment?”  
  
“I honestly do not think so, John,” he replied rather plaintively. “I did not actually say anything. I was intent upon my examination of the room.”  
  
“What was she doing whilst you were thus engaged?”  
  
“She removed her gloves and coat and hat and did something to her hair,” he answered a bit distractedly.  
  
“Her…? “  
  
“Her hair. Yes. You know—she stood in front of the mirror and fussed with it.”  
  
“Was this before or after you examined her… personal items?”  
  
“During.”  
  
I paused and pictured it in my mind: Sherlock, frowning and muttering to himself as he poked at her delicate underclothes and she leaning over, examining her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. Then it occurred to me: had she actually been tidying her hair, or had she been covertly watching my friend?  
  
“Did she say anything about her clothing?” I demanded.   
  
He looked a bit startled. “As a matter of fact, yes, she did.”  
  
“What, exactly?” I wanted so much to reach across the table and take his hand.  
  
He considered. “She asked me if I enjoyed the way they felt.”  
  
Oh! I truly _was_ beginning to understand the situation. “What did you reply?”  
  
“I told her that it was entirely irrelevant to her case.” He was so puzzled—at the woman’s question; at mine.  
  
We paused in our discussion as our tea arrived. In addition to the cakes and pastries perched on the three-tiered stand, there was a selection of delicate sandwiches. I first poured each of us some lovely hot tea before helping myself to a few of the savoury items. I was surprised when Sherlock selected something sweet for himself. It spoke to his distracted frame of mind that he was eating at all, I realised. Often during a case he eschewed food, although tea was usually welcome.  
  
My delight at his unusual indulgence was short-lived. Halfway through a lovely piece of lemon curd sponge, he lost interest and left it unfinished on his plate.  
  
*  
  
“Mr Holmes!” The exuberant shout took us by surprise. A young man nearly ran across the lobby towards us as we exited the restaurant.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“I’m Miss Carmichael’s brother, Tom,” he exclaimed a bit breathlessly as he strode up to us, his hand outstretched. “Tom Carmichael.”  
  
“Ah. Yes. The brother,” Sherlock murmured.  
  
I shook the man’s hand. He was handsome and energetic, with a wide smile on his face. He didn’t seem to notice that Sherlock did not offer his hand. “You must be Doctor Watson,” he enthused. “I’ve read all your stories in _The Strand_ ,” he offered. “Quite exciting to meet you!”  
  
For the brother of someone who had recently been the victim of a crime, he did not seem terribly concerned. Quite the opposite, I reflected. I glanced at Sherlock and could see that he was thinking the same thing. His eyes were fastened on the man’s face; gazing keenly at him.  
  
“Have you spoken to your sister?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“Is there somewhere we could withdraw?” I interjected. “We really should not be conversing here in the lobby.”  
  
“Oh, certainly! Why not have a drink? I _have_ just spoken to my sister and I need one.” Before we could respond, he had bounded off in the direction of the hotel bar.  
  
“Energetic fellow,” Sherlock noted.  
  
“And not a bit shy,” I reflected as we followed in his wake.  
  
*  
  
“My sister Lucy believes me to be an idiot,” Mr Carmichael remarked after taking a long drink from his pint of bitter. I had decided on a pint of stout for myself and had gotten a sherry for Sherlock. We sat at an intimate table in the nearly empty bar.  
  
“And why is that?” I asked, quite honestly baffled.  
  
“Because I speak my mind and sometimes don’t think before I act,” he admitted. “But there’s no harm in that, is there?”  
  
I nearly choked on my stout trying not to laugh, and our new companion patted me firmly on my arm. “You all right, my good fellow?” he exclaimed.  
  
“Went down the wrong pipe,” I gasped. “The way you described yourself just now reminded me of someone, that’s all.”  
  
I did not think that Mr Carmichael—Tom—caught the look that Sherlock gave me, but apparently he did. “Oh, are you guilty of the same outrageous behaviour?” he laughed. “Then I find myself in illustrious company and not a bit of an idiot.”  
  
Sherlock surprised us both by smiling. “Not a bit of one at all,” he remarked quietly. “Now, first, would you like a cigarette? And then would you be so kind as to tell me…”  
  
Sherlock skilfully drew out of our new friend a complete, articulate, and extremely useful description of his sister Miss Lucy Carmichael’s acquisition of two pieces of Oriental antiquity and her journey to London to sell them to a collector. We exchanged significant looks over this last bit.  
  
“Yes,” Mr Carmichael responded in some confusion. “Of course the collector knew she was coming into town. It would have been a bit mad for us to make all this effort—not to mention the cost—without having an appointment with the fellow.”  
  
“Indeed,” Sherlock rumbled, deep in thought.  
  
*  
  
“I need to examine your sister’s room further,” Sherlock stated, “but I am afraid I somehow offended her earlier, and I highly doubt that she will allow my return.”  
  
“Lucy is very easily offended. I’ll talk her ‘round.”  
  
“It might be more advantageous if she were not made aware of my further examination.”  
  
“Oh! That _is_ rather exciting. I’ll distract her and draw her out, then, and keep her away as long as you think you need.”  
  
“Will you?” I asked in genuine surprise.  
  
“Oh, yes. This is quite like being in one of your stories… oh! Perhaps I will be, if you write this one for publication.” He leaned eagerly towards me and placed a hand on my arm.  
  
“Perhaps Mr Holmes should solve it first,” I laughed, and he joined me.  
  
*  
  
True to his word, Mr Carmichael got his sister away from her room. “She needs to send a telegram to that collector she was to meet. She was after me earlier to run it down to the office myself. I’ll persuade her to come down to the telegraph office herself and wait for a reply.”  
  
His ruse worked, and directly after their departure Mr Brooks, the hotel manager, let us into the room with his skeleton key. He was eager for a swift and discreet resolution to the situation; if word about a robbery from one of his guest rooms got out, it would most certainly sully the establishment’s reputation.  
  
I watched fondly as Sherlock did what he did so well. As always, he threw himself quite literally into his investigation. He first went to the bureau and opened one of the small drawers at the top. Having already examined it, he did not linger, but merely glanced down at it and then at me significantly. While keeping an eye on him, I moved to the bureau and looked into the open drawer myself. As he had said earlier, it was full of a woman’s delicate bits of clothing that were usually hidden from view to all but those most intimately related.  
  
He moved then to the window. The room was on the first floor, and there was a tree limb that made access so simple that the hotel manager was quite embarrassed. “I will have that tended to at once,” he offered.  
  
“Yes, you will,” Sherlock responded drily.  
  
“Holmes!” I reprimanded. He gave me a cheeky look before he turned and began to examine the window more closely.  
  
I believe I amused the manager as I counted down: Three, two, one… Sherlock took his magnifying glass out of a pocket with great show and rather impressively began to study the sill in earnest. “The man adores an audience,” I murmured, and the manager shot me a rather surprised look.  
  
It was not for the sake of the audience that he then got quite serious, muttering to himself. “Watson!” he suddenly cried, “I need a piece of paper.” I found some hotel stationery in the writing desk and with an experienced hand folded and tore it quickly into two pieces of different sizes. Without removing his gaze through his glass, he thrust his hand out for one of the pieces and I complied, brushing my fingers against his as I gave him the smaller one. “Do you have your knife?” he asked unnecessarily; I already had it out of my pocket.  
  
Sherlock selected a blade and delicately scraped something from the sill onto the paper. Quite automatically I folded the remaining, larger piece of stationery and carefully accepted the smaller piece, pressing it delicately flat to retain whatever sample he had gathered.  
  
The hotel manager had taken a few steps closer to us and was peering over my shoulder, impressed.  
  
“Thank you, Watson.” A fleeting smile crossed his lips. “I could not do without your assistance.”  
  
He then walked briskly all around the room’s perimeter, pausing twice. The first time his attention was arrested by a potted plant; it was in a large blue jar and sat on a stand. “Watson,” he commanded, and I complied with his unspoken request by supplying another torn piece of stationery. This time a small sample of the plant’s soil was tucked safely into my pocket.  
  
The second time, he stopped at the wardrobe and peeked in. Something there definitely caught his eye.  
  
“Mr Brooks,” he called out. “I believe it is time to summon the police.”  
  
*  
  
“Yes, I am certain, Inspector Bell,” Sherlock announced. “Miss Carmichael first obtained the objects through illicit means—I am certain that they were stolen from a private collection, possibly in America or Canada. A bit of fairly mundane forgery and she had ‘authentication’ of their value. She had them insured for that value—and possibly many times over. She then arranged to sell them to a private collector here in London.”  
  
“So unlawfully receiving goods,” the inspector reiterated, nodding at the constable taking notes. “Forgery.”  
  
“Oh, there’s more!” Sherlock exclaimed with rather indecent enthusiasm, and Miss Carmichael’s brother gave a little cough and put his hand to his mouth to obscure his grin. “She did not limit herself to that one transgression. After securing a buyer, she continued to cast her net.”  
  
“What for?” the inspector inquired.  
  
“Why, another buyer, of course.”  
  
“So she offered the objects for sale, and accepted the offered price, but was not going to fulfil her promise? That is obtaining money by false pretences and…” the inspector paused and thought for a moment. “Oh! Promissory estoppel.”  
  
I spelt the words for our dedicated note-taker.  
  
“Precisely. No, Miss Carmichael! No need to say a word,” Sherlock admonished the woman, who was seated in the hotel manager’s own chair under the watchful gaze of a second young officer. She had made a move as if to speak, but my friend silenced her. “Now,” he continued. “She is in possession of the artefacts, insurance for those objects, correspondence agreeing to one price for the sale of those items, and a promise of a higher price from a second buyer. What did she do?”  
  
He turned and looked directly at me, and I was grateful to suddenly recognise her scheme. “Oh, Good Lord!” I cried. “Of course. She hid the objects and claimed that they had been stolen so she could collect the insurance money—I am not sure if she meant to implicate her brother whilst doing so, but she did say that he was the only person who knew where they were hidden and in doing so implied it.”  
  
“Insurance fraud and false accusation,” Inspector Bell pronounced rather jubilantly. The young uniformed man taking notes flipped to a clean sheet in his notebook and scribbled on.  
  
“Then she intended to bring them to the second buyer and collect her payment,” I continued.  
  
“Selling stolen goods,” the inspector nodded enthusiastically. “Got all that down, Finlay?” The young man nodded, a bit wide-eyed.  
  
“Excellent, Watson,” Sherlock praised, and I am not ashamed to say that I basked in it a bit.  
  
“Oh, wait, Mr Holmes!” Tom Carmichael suddenly interjected. “How did you know that she never hid those things in her bureau? She told me that was where she was going to put them.”  
  
“It was a matter of dimensions. They never would have fit in that drawer.”  
  
“And how did you determine that they were, in actuality, in her hat box?” The hotel manager, who had remained silent during this entire interrogation, finally spoke up. It had been he, after all, who had witnessed Sherlock rather theatrically revealing the items’ actual hiding place.  
  
Sherlock is clever and he knows it and sometimes I wish he did not preen quite so much [a note from Sherlock: _I_ am _clever and I do not ‘preen’_. This is followed by a note from the doctor: _Yes, you do_ ], but there was little I could do to stop him.  
  
“That was absurdly simple. Observe Miss Carmichael’s hat. It is of the new fashion and rather neat, I must say—but it most certainly did not require such a large receptacle—and if she had such a box with her, why had she left her other, equally tidy bonnet so carelessly on the shelf instead of putting it safely away?”  
  
With that, Sherlock twitched open the hat box, which was perched on the manager’s desk, with his graceful fingers and thoughtfully withdrew one of the blue and white porcelain pieces—a jar fifteen inches high and nearly as wide, it most assuredly could not have fit into the bureau drawer in question. A great collective gasp came from all those in the room when he began to twirl it carelessly in his hands. “Mr Holmes, have a caution!” the hotel manager cried out.  
  
“Nothing to fear,” he responded airily, chuckling a bit. “Watson?”  
  
Not all of those in the room were aghast, I suddenly realised. Miss Carmichael alone remained unmoved by his cavalier action. “Our ‘guest’ here did not flinch or otherwise show concern for your treatment of such a valuable object,” I reported.  
  
“Excellent observation, Watson,” he said warmly. “And that is because…”  
  
“It’s _counterfeit!_ ”  
  
We all looked at Constable Finlay in some surprise. He blushed at the attention, ducking his head back and resuming his note-taking at a blistering speed.  
  
And now Tom Carmichael was staring at his sister, his mouth open in astonishment. “Do you mean to say that this _whole thing_ is a fraud?” he demanded of her, incredulous. “ _Lucy!_ ”  
  
The young constable broke his pencil.  
  
*  
  
A while later, we stood with her brother in the hotel lobby and watched as Miss Lucy Carmichael was politely but firmly escorted out the front door of the hotel by two uniformed officers.  
  
“Thank you for your help, Mr Holmes,” Inspector Bell nodded. “You know, now that I think about it—how did you get involved in this anyway?”  
  
“Pure chance, inspector. We were in the hotel with the intention of having something to eat and overheard her reporting the ‘theft’ to the manager.”  
  
“Remarkable,” the inspector whistled. “The criminal class should all just go on a long holiday with you about, sir.” He offered his hand and, with a discreet but firm pinch to his elbow, I managed to get Sherlock to take it. “Now, I must be off. The report on this one is going to take me ages.” He grinned and headed out.  
  
“Well, that’s a job well done,” I sighed in relief. “Now, Mr Carmichael,” I said jovially, for I had taken a liking to the outspoken young man, “what are you plans?”  
  
“Well, Sunday dinner at our parents’ will be interesting,” he commented, and we both laughed so heartily the hotel manager poked his head out of his office door.  
  
*  
  
We were finally back in our rooms. I was concerned. Despite the resolution of the case, Sherlock seemed distracted and dissatisfied. He shook his head at the suggestion of something to eat—Mrs Hudson had some cold pheasant set aside and I was happy to have some.  
  
“This is really quite good,” I commented, trying to entice him. He shook his head vehemently. “Whatever is the matter?” I finally demanded. Then I recalled it—it had completely escaped my mind in the excitement. “Is it still bothering you—what that dreadful woman did to you in her room? You never did tell me everything.”  
  
“That is because I do not understand it,” he admitted.  
  
“Tell me the rest of what occurred,” I suggested, tidying myself with my napkin, “and I will endeavour to determine the entire situation.”  
  
“Very well,” he sighed. He lit a cigarette and began pacing with it. “I explained to you what occurred at the outset of my investigation.”  
  
“You were examining the alleged hiding place of the stolen items and she was tidying her hair. She asked if you cared for the feel of her… garments.”  
  
“Yes. As I have said, I did not see the relevance of my opinion regarding her underclothes, so I did not reply. I completed my observations of the drawer—having determined that, quite obviously based on the size of it, she was lying about having hidden the artefacts there. I did not want to let her know that I had already discovered her subterfuge. I knew that once I accused her she would most likely flee the city. I needed time to gather more proof of her guilt and to summon the authorities.”  
  
“All right. So what occurred next?”  
  
“I was making rather a show of examining the window. I could see that she was pleased by this—I presume that she believed her clumsy attempt at creating the appearance of a break-in had fooled me. I admit to being a bit insulted by this.”  
  
“What did she do?” His tale had me fascinated.  
  
“The window was open—I obviously cannot ascertain if she or the hotel maid left it that way—and I saw that there was a bit of dirt on the sill, as if someone had stepped in over it.”  
  
“But…?” I chuckled. His tone was so amusingly disgusted.  
  
“Well, John, I think even you could have noticed that the smudge was faked. If someone was breaking into the room, the soil would have—” he interrupted himself and startled me by seizing one of my boots, which I had removed upon returning home. “Here. Let me show you.” He knelt and placed my footwear down firmly into the ashes in the grate, imitating a natural heel-to-toe gait. Now I rose and followed him to the window. He opened it to the cool evening air as I raised the gas a bit—I wanted to see clearly what he was demonstrating.  
  
“You see,” he explained, a bit of excitement finally colouring his voice, “if you were breaking into a room from the outside, you would leave soil on the sill in this fashion—” he held my boot and, flipping it so the heel faced out into the street, moved it in a good imitation of the motion of someone clambering into the room. And yes, I could see clearly the pattern of the ash left behind. “And of course it would actually be outdoor soil, and in this case most likely contain bits of bark as well. But if you simply rubbed a bit of soil from a potted plant onto a boot that you had temporarily ‘liberated’ from your brother’s bag, it would look more like this—” He knelt and rubbed the boot side-to-side in the ashes, then held it to the sill again and repeated his side-to-side rubbing motion. I could readily see the difference, thus demonstrated. I also realised why he had collected the samples that he had: he could prove through some application of his chemicals that the dirt remaining on the sill was from the plant within the room and not the grounds outside.  
  
“But it was her brother’s boot?” I wondered.  
  
“She was smart enough to realise that, if she had used one of her own, she might not have been able to clean the soil off it completely.”  
  
“You are brilliant,” I praised.  
  
“Not about everything.” His jubilant tone had suddenly fallen away again. I realised that once again I had allowed him to distract me with details of the case.  
  
“Oh, my darling!” I exclaimed, taking my boot from him. “Please tell me what has gotten you so upset—and what caused that woman to strike you.” I was sure now that it was nothing that he had done or said. Had she possibly realised that he had detected her subterfuge? “You deduced that in no time at all,” I remarked, dropping my boot to the floor to join its mate.  
  
“Of course I did,” he replied confidently. I laughed at his immodesty.  
  
“But she thought that you had, at that point, ‘taken the bait,’ as it were, correct?”  
  
“Yes. She seemed quite cheerful at that point—more cheerful than someone who had just had two valuable antiquities stolen had any right to be.”  
  
“So she thought that she had fooled you. I still do not understand why she struck you.”  
  
“It was what transpired then—.” He stopped abruptly and suddenly seemed very concerned with retrieving his cigarette, which he had perched, still burning, on the mantel when he had knelt with my boot. He gazed into the fire, his back to me, as he smoked.  
  
“Please,” I begged. “Please tell me what has got you so upset.”  
  
“I do not understand what she wanted of me,” he suddenly admitted in a low voice. “I do not understand how she expected me to respond.”  
  
“To what?” I was extremely alarmed. “What did she do?”  
  
“She… she sat on the bed, and she suggested that I come away from the window and… join her.”  
  
“What? She did not!” I was astounded.  
  
“Yes. Most assuredly. She sat on the bed and said ‘Why not come sit with me here and explain to me what you have found?’ but it was her tone that distressed me—she did not sound as if she cared at all to listen to my deductions.”  
  
How he managed to sound insulted at this juncture made me shake my head. He could be so very ridiculous. “No,” I gently explained. “She did not care about your deductions at all.”  
  
“Then what did she want?” he demanded, throwing the remainder of his cigarette viciously into the fire.  
  
“Oh… Sherlock,” I groaned. He was still so very naïve. “Come sit down,” I requested. I sat on the sofa and patted the cushion next to me. He slouched over reluctantly—looking so much like a child facing punishment I nearly laughed. Instead I leaned back and drew him to me so his back rested against my chest, and I ran my fingers through his hair. “You need a trip to the barber,” I commented.  
  
He sighed.  
  
“Now, shall I explain to you exactly what that woman wanted?”  
  
He nodded.  
  
“I believe that she wanted you to make love to her.”  
  
He sat bolt upright and twisted so he could see my face. He looked rather panicked. “Make… do you mean kiss her?”  
  
“Calm down,” I instructed. “Yes, I mean kiss her, and possibly more.”  
  
“But I have no desire whatsoever to kiss anyone but you!”  
  
“I am very pleased to hear that,” I told him sincerely.  
  
“You said ‘possibly more’. What more do you mean?”  
  
“Lie back,” I insisted, pulling him back down. I resumed stroking his hair. “I am alluding to what I explained to you—about what happens between men and women.”  
  
“But you said that only happens between husband and wife!” He sounded outraged and confused.  
  
“That is what is supposed to happen, but you know that that is not entirely the case.”  
  
“You mean those people who are not married to each other, but who do—those things...” His voice dropped.  
  
“You know that they do,” I reminded him. “You and I do those things, after all.”  
  
He pulled away from me and twisted around again. “We… did she want us to remove our clothing?” His eyes were wide.  
  
“Very possibly, yes.”  
  
He shuddered and, turning completely around, buried his face on my shoulder. I wrapped reassuring arms around him. “That is disgusting,” he remarked, his words muffled by my jacket.  
  
“Have you ever seen a woman’s… well, have you ever seen a woman unclothed?” I inquired gently as I stroked his back.  
  
“Of course. Garments are frequently disarranged—”  
  
“Not corpses.”  
  
“Oh. Well… then no.”  
  
“Then you do not know if it is disgusting.” I regretted my words as soon as they left my mouth. He pulled away from me and, using my chest, pushed up and off the sofa. He took a long step away, injury and shock contorting his beautiful features.  
  
“You do not want to be with me any longer!” he accused sharply. “You want to be with a woman. You want to kiss her and take off her clothing and… do those things that men and women do.” He turned abruptly away from me and stood very still, his head bowed down to his chest, utterly defeated.  
  
“What? No. That is not at all what I meant.” I rose and tried to hold him, but he resisted and took two steps further away. “I was simply pointing out that…” I stopped there, struggling to find exactly the right words. “I was simply stating a fact, my darling,” I murmured. “You cannot decide that something is disgusting if you have never even seen it.” I reached for him and he retreated further. He remained with his back to me.  
  
“I did not mean that women are disgusting. Not _all_ women,” he said in a voice so low that I could barely catch his statement. “I do not wish to kiss or embrace any of them, but they are not all that dreadful. I am sure that Mrs Watson—Mary—was not. I should not be surprised that you think well of her—of women in general—and that you might… long for one.”  
  
“Oh, my love!” I was horrified at what our conversation had led to. “Can we please—there has been a misunderstanding on both of our parts. Can we please withdraw together and discuss this in my bed?”  
  
“No!” He shouted his reply and was in his own room before I could react. I heard him lock his door, and I did not need to have the observational skills of a consulting detective to know that he would also lock the door that adjoined our rooms.  
  
*  
  
It was a horrible week. Sherlock absolutely refused to speak to me. He was up early the next day—I had slept little myself, of course—and went out before I even rose. He spent most of that week out—I had no idea where he was going or what he was doing, and that upset me terribly. I suppose he is correct in saying that I have a vivid imagination; it ran rampant those several days. Would he get into a fight? Speak in an untoward fashion about our activities? Put himself into danger? Indulge in his damned habit? I had no idea and knew that it was purposeless to conjecture, or even to take a more active role and attempt to follow him.  
  
Mrs Hudson knew that there was something terribly wrong, of course. She was so wonderful about it—she held her tongue even as she brought up meals for me—just for me. She seemed to realise that saying anything would just make me feel more horrible. I was a horrible person. I had hurt the one person I loved—adored—and now I hated myself for my passivity. Where was he? What was he doing? How could I rectify this if I could not even speak to him?  
  
Oh! Of course. I am embarrassed even here on these private pages to admit that it took several days for it to occur to me that there was one way that I could reach him. I would write him a letter. He did return to our rooms periodically, for fresh shirts. He would creep in, in the dead of the night, and try as I might, I was never awake when he was there. I honestly do not know how he managed it—it made me wonder how far away he actually was during that week. Was he close by? Was he close enough to know when I slept? I could not say, and of course even if I had seen him, he would not have exactly sat and listened to me. So—yes. I would write him a letter and leave it for him and pray that he would read it.  
  
*  
  
[The letter that the doctor wrote is here; it is clearly the original, on different paper than the narrative. It has some odd stains on it, as if it had gotten wet at some point.]  
  
My dearest darling Sherlock,  
  
Please please forgive me. I said some horrid things and implied others and all of it [the doctor has made a rare edit to his own writing, striking out _all of it_ ] none of it was intended the way it sounded. The entire affair was disgusting, from beginning to end, and other than the acquaintance of Mr Carmichael, absolutely nothing good has come of the case.  
  
I am so very sorry that that horrible Miss Carmichael approached you as she did. Can you please understand that even if you did care for women in that way, she was not at all correct or proper or decent in her insinuations, and you had every right to reject her. That you find women not appealing in that fashion makes it, at least to you and to me, doubly sickening. I suppose that she had no idea about us, though.  
  
And yes, we do have to discuss it all further—about Mary. I will endeavour to explain to you what transpired between she and I more fully than I have. Perhaps that will alleviate your fear—your misapprehension—that I desire to return to her in any way. I do not wish to do that in a letter. I want to explain it to you whilst you are in my arms; where I can see your beautiful face and kiss you and soothe your fears.  
  
Please come home to me.  
  
Your John  
  
*  
  
He did come home. He read my letter and came into my room (it was about three o’clock in the morning) and I immediately awoke and without another word I pulled back the bedclothes and he slid into the bed and into my arms and at that moment all I wanted to do was to kiss that angelic face gently and hold his thin frame and to assure myself that he was whole and well and mine.  
  
[There is a codicil in Sherlock’s hand. It is written in an uncharacteristically clumsy hand—as if sentiment was so strong as to affect even that.]  
  
 _John, I am so very heartily sorry about this entire episode. I allowed my fears to get the best of me. That horrible woman’s attentions confused and alarmed me, and I did not want to hear your explanations at first. But you did explain and I do now understand and I wish that nothing of that nature ever comes between us again._  
  
 _I do love you so very, very much._  
  



End file.
